


Lumos, Nox, Expecto Patronum

by bullroars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Magic, Aurors, Canon-Typical Violence, Disregard for Canon, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hogwarts, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullroars/pseuds/bullroars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Join the Auror department,</i> they said," Athos muttered, up to his knees in muck.  "<i>It'll be fun,</i> they said.  <i>Treville's the only one who will take the three of you and your options are incredibly limited,</i> they said.  <i>Join the Auror department or face years in Azkaban because if Aramis sleeps with the Bulgarian Minister's daughter again, we're going to have to arrest the lot of you,</i> they said."</p>
<p>(Or, a Harry Potter AU.  Athos gets a trainee, someone is killing off Aurors, and the new Minister of Magic's life is in danger.  Athos's job is a gift that keeps on giving.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Auror Team Four

**Author's Note:**

> There are a million other things I should have been doing, but shit I love this little show so much. 
> 
> None of this would have been possible without my very good friend [aubrey,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfadingrain/pseuds/neverfadingrain) who not only stayed with me when I went on like a three-day headcanon jam for this thing but also beta'd and got it into something resembling working order. Thanks, sugar <3
> 
> I've got all of this planned out and a good bit written, so hopefully updates will be weekly/biweekly depending on what's going on. 
> 
> A list of spells used or mentioned over the course of the chapter will be at the end!

I: Auror Team Four

“So,” Aramis sang, propping his elbows on Athos’ desk with a grin.  “Did you hear who Treville just recruited?”

Athos, as a matter of fact, had not heard who Treville had just recruited, and he quite frankly didn’t care all that much.  Aurors came and went all the time.  Unless they knew some new spells Athos had never heard of or messed with the coffeemaker—a Muggle artifact Athos had requisitioned from the Misuse office, and was very, very protective of—he really didn’t bother getting to know anyone outside Team Four.  “No,” he said.

Aramis grinned widely. “Wanna guess?”

Athos didn’t bother with a response.

Aramis sighed.  “D’Artagnan!”  

“D’Artagnan?”  French name, Athos thought, but he didn’t think he’d heard it before.  He frowned.  “Who is that and why do I care?”

“Oh, you’re gonna break his little heart,” said Aramis, still grinning.  “You really don’t remember?  It was six years ago, but the whelp followed you _everywhere._ You’ve got to remember.”

The word _whelp_ sparked a picture in Athos’s memory.  Dark hair, a round, hopeful face, a small boy in black robes, red tie flapping in the breeze as he tried to keep up with Aramis and Porthos as they ran from that crazed hippogriff—

“Not the Gryffindor boy,” Athos said, remembering.  “He can’t be old enough, can he?”   _D’Artagnan._ He recognized the name now.  He’d been the boy’s grudging mentor at school, assigned to him as part of the Inter-House Cooperation Program.  Why the professors had decided to give a fresh-faced Gryffindor first year to the most bad-tempered Slytherin in the school Athos would never know, but  D’Artagnan had followed the three of them, because where Athos went Aramis and Porthos followed, everywhere.

Athos had taught him how to duel.  (Not serious dueling, understand—he taught the boy the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and _Expelliarmus,_ and expressly forbade Aramis and Porthos from teaching him anything dangerous.)

But they’d always just called him _the whelp,_ because he’d been six years behind Athos and five behind the other two.  Athos did the math in his head.  “Merlin’s beard,” he said, “he is old enough.”

Aramis laughed delightedly.  “I hope Treville gives him to us for training.  You should ask, you know.  You’ve got a history with the brat and Treville thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”

“In Treville’s defense,” Porthos called from his own cubicle, “he did catch Athos after he accidentally drank that Stool-Loosening Potion.”

Athos ignored him.  Something must have shown on his face, because Aramis’s smile faded.  “You’re not going to ask to mentor him, are you?”

“No,” said Athos, “I will not.”

“Why?”

“Yeah,” Porthos said, abandoning all pretense of work and joining Aramis in Athos’s too-small cubicle.  “I thought you liked the kid.  You were all he talked about, after you left.”

Athos gave them both a withering look.  “You really want to bring someone else into this?”  He gestured to the tiny cubicle.  “We haven’t had a case in two weeks.”

Aramis snorted.  “That’s only because Capet’s getting sworn in as Minister.  Once he’s in and Richelieu calls off the hounds, things’ll pick back up.  It’s not like he actually cares enough about the crime rates to push for longstanding reform.”

“You’re spending too much time with Ninon,” said Porthos.  Aramis shrugged.

“What?”  he said.  “It’s true.”

Athos sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I don’t think taking on a trainee is a good idea right now.  Let someone else teach him.  Do you really want him to get stuck with our bad reputation?”

They all looked at each other.

“No,” said Porthos.

“Definitely not,” Aramis agreed.

“It’s settled, then.” Athos leaned back in his chair tiredly, stretching his legs.  “No trainees for Team Four.”  The boy would be happier with another, more normal team.  He’d liked the three of them well enough in school, but it had been years since then.  They were all different.  Besides, saddling the whelp with their reputation and their luck right out of school was cruel.  Treville would wait before d’Artagnan offended some high Ministry official before he inflicted Athos, Porthos, and Aramis on him.

“I’m sad to hear that,” Treville said, rounding the corner.  His formal robes were in their usual state of disarray, like he’d tugged them on as an afterthought, a half-hearted attempt to please the Wizengamot.  “Are you sure, Athos?  Team Four could use another man.”

Athos looked pointedly at his tiny cubicle.  Between Aramis’s lazy sprawl and the width of Porthos’s shoulders, there was barely any room for Athos’s lettertray, let alone another person.

Treville glanced between them and sighed.  “Very well.  I’ll look after him, then, at least until I can stick him with someone else.  I might not even keep any this year.  You all took a year off between school and joining up, didn’t you?”

Porthos grinned.  Athos winced.  Aramis laughed out loud.

“Not a recommended experience, then?”

“I had a great time,” Aramis said.

“You ended up in a Russian prison,” Athos muttered.

“A _Muggle_ Russian prison,” agreed Porthos.

Aramis replied with a very Muggle hand gesture.

“Enough,” Treville said, pinching the bridge of his own nose.  ( _God,_ thought Athos, in a moment of horrible clarity, _this man is my future.  I will become this man._ )  “The rest of the Office isn’t as batshit insane as you—”

“Hey now,” said Aramis.

“That’s hurtful,” said Porthos.

“— _so a year off would probably help most_ normal _people adjust to the rigors of this office._ ” Treville took a deep breath.  The Head Auror’s blood pressure always seemed to spike around Team Four.  Athos could sympathize.  

“I have something for you to do,” Treville continued, and Athos sat a little straighter.

“Not more bloody paperwork, I hope,” Porthos muttered.

Treville eyed him.  “No,” he said.  “I have an assignment for you.”  He sobered.  “Team Nine is missing.”

Athos frowned.

“Missing?”  said Aramis, worry creasing his forehead.  “How long?”

“Three days.”

“That’s four teams gone in as many months,” Porthos added.  “First Twelve, then Six and Eight, now Nine?  What’s goin’ on, boss?”

“That’s what you’ll be looking into,” Treville said.  “I don’t want to panic anyone, least of all our new Minister, but this is a pattern.  I can’t afford to lose more teams. Richelieu’s budget cuts have already trimmed us down lower than I’d like, and the things I’ve been hearing from some of the other departments, well.”

Athos closed his eyes.  Four teams gone in four months.  That wasn’t an accident, or a coincidence.  It was a pattern. “You’re thinking that Dark wizards might be on the move again,” he said.

Treville gave him a hard look.  “Keep that to yourself,” he said, which was all the answer Athos needed.  “You’ll be going to Scotland.  Travel light, travel fast, and check in as soon as you find something.  If someone opposes you, get out of there, do you understand?  And be careful.  I don’t have the manpower to lose more good Aurors.”

Aramis grinned widely.  “Come on, boss.  We’re always careful, aren’t we, boys?”

\---

It went like this:

Athos was older than Porthos and Aramis, and when he graduated he missed them terribly but was too proud to say it and too impatient to wait around for them to finish seventh year.  His father had always told him that Aurors were little more than poorly-trained attack dogs, so Athos with his good grades, his bad attitude, and his firewhiskey habits, joined the Department of Mysteries.

That was Athos’s first mistake.

The second was, a year later, staying in the Department of Mysteries and letting Aramis and Porthos run around unchecked.

It took the better part of a year, one pro Quidditch ban, and seven international incidents for Athos to file all the necessary paperwork and find all the right loopholes, but he managed to get himself and his two morons into the Auror training program.  (Treville was the only man in the entire Ministry crazy enough to look at the three of them and go, “I’ll take the lot of you.”)

They completed the three-year training program in one and a half, settled into Athos’s tiny cubicle, and promptly became the scourge of the Wizarding underworld.

(Athos wouldn’t go so far as to call them that, but every once in a while he does like to indulge Aramis’s airs.)

None of them ever talked about their experiences during The Year.  It was pointless, Porthos said, to whine about the past when there were Dark wizards to jinx into next Tuesday.

Athos traded in political intrigue and power struggles, his family’s bread and butter, for a life as a very, very poorly-trained attack dog.  His father hadn’t spoken to him in four years.  Aramis stole all of his sandwiches, Treville yelled at them at least once a week, and Porthos had a lovely habit of napping on Athos’s floor, which made getting in and out of the cubicle a damn near impossibility.  He still drank excessively—had to, with his teammates—and snarled at anyone who touched his coffeemaker, but Athos, he thought, was happy.

\---

They arrived in Scotland with a crack and the feeling of coming through a long, dark tunnel.  Green light beat down on them through the trees, wind ruffled their hair, and the noise and buzz of London became breeze and birdsong.

“Quaint, innit?”  said Porthos, grinning.  “How far d’you think we are from school?”

“Hogsmeade’s that way,” Athos said, pointing west.  “Not terribly far, I should think.”

“We’re not in the Forbidden Forest, are we?”  Aramis, as a general rule, _hated_ forests.  After that incident with the acromantula, Athos couldn’t really blame him.

“No.  It’s a normal Muggle forest, as far as Treville told me.”  Which didn’t mean that there weren’t magical things lurking in the trees.  A team of Aurors had disappeared here.  Something magical, man or creature, must have come through.

Aramis relaxed.  “Team Nine, then?  What were they doing out here?”

“Treville didn’t say.”  Athos raised his wand and whispered, “ _Homenum revelio._ ”  Light passed over the forest, rustling past leaves and clinging bush.  “All clear,” he said.

“They were staying here?”

“Treville said near here, anyway.  By the willow tree that looks like Celestina Warbeck.”  Athos pointed.

“Holy shit,” said Aramis, staring at the tree.  He put his hands out, palms tilted up.  “It’s even got the right, you know.”  He mimed squeezing.

“Tits,” Porthos laughed, copying Aramis.  “What a lovely woman.”

Aramis hummed in agreement.

Athos eyed the both of them.  “There’s no way either of you have slept with Celestina Warbeck.”

Their twin grins made Athos wish for a nice long drink of firewhiskey.  “You know what,” he said, “I don’t want to know.  I’m going to actually _do my job,_ you two can stay here and fondle the tree if you like.”

“That would be rude,” said Aramis loftily.

“Very,” Porthos agreed.  “What if she doesn’t wanna be fondled, eh?”

“You should really be more considerate, Athos.”

“I’m _considering_ murdering the both of you and telling Treville a werewolf got you,” Athos muttered, loping away from them.  They snickered, but got the hint and split up, casting about in the forest.

Athos kept his eyes peeling for the telltale signs of a struggle.  Teams worked in three- or four-wizard groups.  One Auror was always awake and watching the surrounding area, even if the others had stopped to camp for the night.  If a whole team of Aurors had been taken, there would be evidence.

Scorch marks, trees blasted to bits, rocks, water, or fire in places where they shouldn’t be.  Athos had once found a scene by following purple smoke.  When Aurors fought, they weren’t subtle about it.

So far, he’d seen nothing.  Not even a twig was out of place.

Athos frowned.   _Odd,_ he thought, and turned around.  “Aramis!” he called.  “Are there any charms or spells you know of that could make the forest look normal?”

“Transfigure it, you mean?”  Aramis shouted back, somewhere to Athos’s left.

“No, like put the forest under an illusion.”

“Well there’s the Bedazzling Hex,” said Aramis, coming over a ridge.  “But that’s not much use over a wider scale, it’s usually just for Invisibility Cloaks.  Why?”

“This,” Athos said, sweeping a hand over the tranquil, pristine forest, “is too neat.  If Aurors were taken here, there’d be some sign.  Hell, if they even _camped_ here we’d find something.”

“Something like a campfire?”  Aramis said, at the exact moment Porthos shouted, “Hey, over here!  I found something.”

They found Porthos standing in front of an empty clearing, hands on his hips, studying the ground.  The faint scent of fire hung in the air.

“Watch,” said Porthos, and stuck his hand out into the clearing.  Air rippled around him and his hand stopped.

“ _Cave inimicum._ ” Aramis studied the clearing for a moment, flicked his wand, and hissed, “ _Finite incantatem._ ”  The air shimmered, and broke.

A campsite wavered into existence, a tent, a fire, some cookware scattered across the ground.  The tent was slashed open, maps and robes and books Athos recognized from Treville’s office scattered about.  The fire had gone out some time ago, and food had burned and congealed in the bottom of the pot.  Aramis whistled.

“There’s still no sign of a fight,” Athos said, looking around at the trees.  The campsite was in ruins, but there were still no hallmarks of Aurors fighting for their lives in the surrounding forest.

“Hoofprints, though.” Porthos nodded at the ground.  Deep prints were cut into the earth, leading away from the site.  “Two centaurs, maybe three.”

“Centaurs?”  Athos frowned.  “We’re not _that_ close to the Forbidden Forest.”

Porthos shrugged.  “There’s more centaurs than just the ones there.  Not so many herds, but little roving bands.  Most of ‘em are outcasts kicked out of the Hogwarts herd.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“They’d know better than to go for a bunch of wizards,” Porthos said, head tilted to the side.  “’ _specially_ Aurors.  They don’t like us much.  If they were here they came before the camp was made, or after Team Nine was gone.”

“Could they have seen the fight and come to investigate?”  Aramis asked.

“To see what they could pick off the dead, more like,” said Porthos darkly.  “We can follow ‘em, if you want.”

Athos looked around at the destroyed campsite.  He saw no bodies, no craters, no blast marks.  If the Aurors had fought, and they _would_ fight, all Aurors would, they hadn’t done so here.  He shrugged.  “Why not?”

Porthos led the way, stepping carefully over the tracks.  As they went Athos would stop periodically to cast a Revealing Charm, checking for human presence, and Aramis followed last, dropping Preservation Charms every few meters to keep the tracks fresh.

_Four teams in four months,_ thought Athos.  He knew that the first team had disappeared somewhere in Cornwall, the second in Wales, and the third somewhere in the South Downs.  There had to be some kind of pattern.  One team of Aurors disappearing a year was not so strange.  Even if Dark wizards had been scattered and few lately, they still had plenty of enemies.  Shit happened.

But four in as many months meant that someone was preying on Aurors, and with a new, young, and quite frankly not very smart Minister of Magic taking office, Athos didn’t like what that implied.

His fingers brushed the locket at his neck absently.  “Be ready,” he said, as the tracks led deeper into the forest and the trees grew closer together.  “I don’t like this.”

Aramis drew closer to Athos’s back and Porthos slowed, letting them follow just a step behind.  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” Aramis muttered.  The light had shifted from green and golden to a few narrow patches of yellow and the rest dark gloom.  The place felt like the Forbidden Forest, sleepy and magical, with just enough danger pricking the edges of Athos’s perception to remind him that the trees were often full of eyes.

The centaur’s trail led them deeper and deeper into the woods.  “Hold on,” said Porthos, stopping so suddenly that Athos nearly crashed into his back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tracks stop.   _Lumos._ ”  Porthos raised his wand high, casting white light over the trees, and called, “Hello!  We’re Aurors.  We’d like to speak with you.”

For several long seconds, there was silence.  Then, “We do not wish to speak with you, Auror.  Leave this place.”  An arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in the tree behind Porthos with a solid thump.  “The next will not miss.”

Aramis very calmly raised his wand and pointed it at the shadows.

“Don’t,” Athos hissed.   “Let him handle it.”

Porthos smiled.  “I’m Porthos,” he said.  “Friend of the Hogwarts herd.”

There was another moment of silence.   “We have heard of you, Porthos, friend of Phepris.”

“I only want to ask a few questions,” said Porthos, still smiling.  “And then we’ll be on our way.  Will you hear me out?”

“We will hear you out.”  And three centaurs stepped out from between the trees, bows loose in their hands.  They didn’t look much like the centaurs Athos had come to know during his Hogwarts days.  Those were handsomer, better-kept, and without a hunted, haunted look in their eyes.

These centaurs looked wild.

Athos inclined his head politely.  Aramis, warily, did the same.

“We’re looking for some missing friends,” Porthos said.  “Have you seen them?  Four Aurors, three men and one woman?”

One centaur, her hair long and tangled, stomped a hoof.  “We have not.”  Her voice was high and hard.  “We tend to stay away from your kind, Auror.”

“But you’ve been to their campsite.”  Porthos’s tone was still light and friendly.  He tucked his wand, still lit, into his back pocket.

The centaurs tensed.

“Easy, now, I know you didn’t attack ‘em,” said Porthos.  “But someone did.  We’re just lookin’ around, is all.  We don’t wanna cause trouble for you and your herd.”

The female centaur raised her head proudly.  “Your kind has always harmed mine, Auror.  Phepris calls you a friend, but he knew you when you were a colt.  You are a man grown.  You come into my forest armed.  You bring trouble with your very presence.”

“Look,” said Porthos, “I know you were at the campsite.  I don’t wanna bring Reg and Control into this, but one of those missing Aurors?  My friend Planchet.  I just wanna know what happened to him.  You help us, we’ll leave in peace.  I promise.”

“His word has always been good,” one of the male centaurs murmured.  He had dappled flanks and cropped hair.  His eyes were bright and keen.  “I will tell you what you wish to know, Auror.”

The female hissed, but the male silenced her with a glare.  “We are banished from Phepris,” he reminded her.  “He will not help us if we offend the Ministry.”

The other male muttered a nasty-sounding word, but neither centaur stopped the dappled male as he stepped nearer to Porthos.

Porthos grinned, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.  “Did you know it was an Auror camp?”

“We knew it was a wizard’s camp,” said the centaur.  He flicked his tail.  “When we arrived, we found that it had been enchanted.  We did not try and break the enchantments, and left.”

“How’d you find the camp?”

The centaur eyed Porthos thoughtfully.  “We saw the lights.  This is a Muggle forest—any magic we see we search for, to make sure that the forest is still safe for us.”

_They saw the attack._

“Do y’know who fired the spell?  Or what kind it was?”

“It was a green spell, fired into the air.  I do not know who cast it, except that it was cast again some distance away.  We followed it.”

“To where?  What did you find.”

The centaur waited a moment, considering, and said, “Not what you hope to find, I should think.  Come.  I will take you there.”

The female centaur spat.  “Coward,” she snarled, and cantered off, the other male following behind her.

The remaining centaur sighed.  “Forgive Circe,” he said.  “She is young, and proud.”

Porthos, still smiling, waved a hand.  “Don’t worry about it.  Lead the way?”

The centaur bowed his head, and set off.  The three Aurors rushed after him, dodging trees and hanging branches.

“How does he _do_ that?”  Aramis hissed, eyeing the centaur.

Athos shrugged, a little helplessly.  The one time he’d tried to reason with a centaur he’d ended up hanging by his ankles in the Forbidden Forest with an arrow in his shoulder.  “He’s got a gift.”  He has seen, over the years, Porthos befriend everything from werewolf cubs to clans of bowtruckle to foul-tempered hippogriffs.  He’d kept an Augurey in his room for the entirety of fourth year and its moaning had driven all of Hufflepuff to distraction.  Aramis had hated the damn thing.

The centaur led them through the deepest, darkest part of the woods, and then, to Athos’s surprise, out onto what looked like a moor.

“This is as far as I will go,” said the centaur.  “The last beam of light came from out there.  Good luck, Auror Porthos.”

“Thanks for your help.”  Porthos bowed slightly to the creature.  It regarded them all solemnly, then turned and disappeared back into the forest.  “Helpful bloke, wasn’t he?”

Aramis shook his head, laughing.  “Much nicer than the other one, at any rate.”

“I want to know,” Athos said, before their usual bickering and bantering could start, “how Aurors got from there,” he gestured back towards the forest, “to out here.  Without any sign of struggle.”

Aramis’s expression darkened.  “I can think of a few ways,” he said.  “Who or whatever attacked them could have Apparated out here, for one.”

“Portkey?”  Porthos suggested.

“Dark magic,” Athos murmured.  He could feel it in the air.  It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he brushed against his locket reflexively.

The mood around him grew serious.

“You believe Treville,” Aramis said.  “You think Dark wizards are picking off Aurors.”

“Makes sense.”  Porthos’s face was sober.  He, like Athos, had realized that if Dark wizards were involved, his friend Planchet was most likely dead.  “Four teams go missing all together like this?  Not even goblins would do something that risky.”

“I think someone’s trying to cut down the Aurors to get at Louis Capet,” Athos said darkly.  “The timing fits, anyway.”

Wind whistled across the moor.

“Well,” said Aramis, “this is where I’d bring a body, if I’d just killed an Auror.  Shall we?”

Together, the three of them spread out and strode across the moor.  Here and there Athos began to see signs of magic. Patches of grass were withered and burnt.  Chunks of loamy earth had been thrown into the air and scattered across the ground.  Aramis found several deep cuts in the earth, _Sectumsempra_ gone wide and wild, and Porthos found a torn, burned robe.

Athos was the one who found the wand.  It was half-buried in mud and grass, and resisted when he pulled at it.  Warily, he held it aloft.

“A wand?”  Aramis came loping over to Athos’s side.  Porthos was higher up, near a tree, casting around in the scrub.  “Who’s, I wonder?”

“One way to find out,” said Athos dryly.  He raised his own wand.  “ _Priori incantatem._ ”

At once, the wand began to vibrate.  He saw a bone form, then a rush of green light, several _Reducto_ curses, and one stunning spell.  The wand vibrated once again, hard, and fell still.

Athos worked backwards.

“That was a Killing Curse,” Aramis said quietly.  “And then—a transfiguration?”

“Into a bone.”  Athos was grim.  He wasn’t holding an Auror’s wand, then.  Aurors didn’t cast the Killing Curse unless they had to—it was still, for them, an Unforgivable.  The owner of this wand had Stunned, and then fought, and then murdered, and then transfigured.

Porthos, face equally grim, came down the hill back to them.  “There’s nothing out there but moorland,” he said.  “Lotta places to hide a body.”

Athos gestured with the foreign wand.  “This is one of theirs,” he growled.  “Someone was killed with it.”

“One of ours?”

“Only one way to find out.”  Aramis took a deep breath, turned, and raised his wand high.  “ _Accio_.”

Athos could never find out just how Aramis managed to get Summoning Charms—any charms, really—to work half as well as he did.  But he never failed, not even now when he wanted to, and sure enough, bones came whistling through the air from across the moor.

They came to rest in front of Aramis, four in all, and Athos could have snarled in fury.

He closed his eyes.  “Don’t untransfigure them,” he said.  “We’ll take them back to the Ministry and let St. Mungo’s do it, the proper way.”

The others nodded.  Aramis’s face was dark and blank.  Porthos’s was twisted in rage and sadness.  One of those bones was his friend.

Athos silently wrapped the bones and the wand in the torn robe, tucked it under his jacket, and Apparated, trusting Aramis and Porthos to follow.

\---

“Oh, god,” said Treville, as soon as he saw Athos.  “What did you find?”

“Transfigured bones, a wand that had cast the Killing Curse, and a burned robe.”

“How many transfigured bones?”

“Four.”

Treville whitened.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said quietly.  Treville cared for each and every one of his Aurors.  He took the time to train them all, to teach them what being an Auror meant, to help them adjust to the lifestyle and the paranoia and the things they sometimes had to do.

He felt each death keenly.

“Porthos is taking the bones to St. Mungo’s to have them untransfigured,” Athos continued.  “Aramis is taking the wand to Ollivander’s.  If he can’t tell us who the wand belongs to, he’ll at least be able to tell us who made it.  We’ll find these people, sir.”

Treville looked him over.  “You will,” he agreed, heavily.  “That’s what worries me.”

“Sir?”

“Someone is killing my Aurors,” Treville said, and anger shone in his face.  “Someone is hunting and attacking my people, and a new Minister sits in his office, oblivious to any problems that Richelieu doesn’t care about.

Athos, to his immense personal pride, didn’t twitch at the mention of the Head of the Department of Mysteries.  “You think someone is trying to kill Louis Capet, sir?”  Athos had reached that conclusion himself, but he wanted Treville to confirm his theory.

“I don’t know if they want to kill the boy,” Treville said, “or weaken the Aurors for some other purpose.  But the World Cup’s only a month away, and the fewer Aurors there are to protect him, the better shot someone has at killing him and throwing Wizarding Britain into chaos.  His father was murdered.  I can see someone looking to repeat history.”

“Especially since Louis is rumored to be so foolish,” Athos said dryly.  He had known Louis Capet for years.  He was two years younger than Athos, but they’d been in Slytherin together, and even before that the Capet family and the de la Fere family had rubbed elbows.  He’d always thought the boy snotty and empty-headed, but he _had_ become Minister of Magic at just twenty-one.  Even with all of Richelieu’s scheming and the power of celebrity, there had to be something between Capet’s ears.

Treville cut him a sharp look, but didn’t disagree.  He sighed.  “This discovery proves we’re being hunted.  I’m going to turn this year’s recruits away, I think.  We need their numbers, but I’ve lost fourteen Aurors since the winter.  I won’t be responsible for the deaths of children.”

“I’ll take d’Artagnan,” Athos said, before he realized what he was saying.

Treville stared at him.  “Three hours ago you told me you didn’t want the boy.”

Athos shrugged, and most determinedly did not flush.  “I knew him in school,” he said.  “He was—a smart kid.  Clever, and a fast learner.  He picked up the few jinxes I taught him—perfectly legal ones, by the way—within a few tries.”

“So you want to train him?  In a warzone?”

_Are we at war now?_ Athos had been very small during the last Wizarding War, but he remembered the fear, and his father’s reaction to the news.

“ _Sir, Henry Capet has been murdered, the Minister of Magic is dead, his wife’s in the chair now, she’s saying someone’s hunting Purebloods…_ ”

“I would like to train d’Artagnan,” Athos repeated, firmly.  “What if whoever’s killing us starts killing recruits?  If they’re trying to cut down Auror numbers, they’ll go for the kids too.”  He didn’t want d’Artagnan to die.  He hadn’t seen the whelp in years, hadn’t written to him or heard from him, but Athos knew he didn’t want him to die.

(And he remembered that, even as a first year, the whelp had been able to keep up with Athos and his friends.  He’d followed them into all of their stupid, dangerous adventures, and he’d been able to hold his own.)

Treville knew Athos was right.  He sighed heavily.

“If it helps you decide,” said Athos, “he actually likes Porthos and Aramis.”

Treville laughed tiredly.  “Well,” he sighed, dragging a hand through his thinning hair, “this is either very good or the worst goddamn decision I’ve ever made, _including_ taking on you three disasters.  Very well.  I’ll admit d’Artagnan.  He’s yours.”

Athos smiled.  “Thank you,” he said.

The Head Auror was already walking off, shaking his head.  “Just try not to get him killed!”  he called over his shoulder.

Athos looked at Team Nine’s empty row of cubicles, and turned away. His fingers itched to _hunt._ “I’ll try,” he muttered.  “I’ll try.”


	2. ii: the whelp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos, you're all wonderful :)

II: The Whelp

_Merlin’s beard,_ thought Athos, catching d’Artagnan’s eye across the crowded atrium. _He got taller._ He remembered d’Artagnan as a tiny boy with round cheeks and fluffy hair, running across the lawn after Porthos with legs that were just a little too short to keep up.

The man leaning against the Fountain of Magical Brethren was tall and lean.  The roundness had gone out of his face and his hair was longer and darker.  If Athos didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the boy was a Seeker visiting League Headquarters, not an Auror in training.  (He still looked too young.  All Athos saw when he looked at him was the brat who always tagged along.)

But the eyes were the same, and the smile that bloomed across d’Artagnan’s face when he caught sight of Athos was the same.

The boy raised a hand hopefully, and Athos made his way across the crowded atrium.

“Athos,” he said, half-anxious and half-delighted.  Athos gave him a bland look.  D’Artagnan paused.  “You remember me, right?”

Athos considered for a moment, hiding a smile.  Just when something like mortification started to cross D’Artagnan’s face, he relented and said, “Whelp.”

For a split second, d’Artagnan looked like he was going to throw his arms around Athos’s neck, but then he flushed and stuck out his hand, grinning widely.

Athos smiled, and shook his hand.  “My god,” he said, “you’ve gotten tall.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.  Mr. Treville told me you’d be overseeing my training, but I didn’t know if you remembered who I was,” d’Artagnan said, all in a rush.  “You look—you look the same.”

Athos raised an eyebrow.  He very much doubted that—it had been six years, after all—but when the boy flushed again, Athos took pity on him and said, dry as a desert, “Aside from the terrible attempt at a beard, you mean.”

“It doesn’t look that bad,” d’Artagnan laughed, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.  He looked so nervous Athos wouldn’t be surprised if he started throwing hexes at the first breeze that hit him wrong.  Most new recruits tended to be on their first day, especially surrounded by the Ministry’s glitz and glamour.

(Athos hadn’t had time to be nervous on his first day—he’d been trying too hard not to throw up on Richelieu’s shoes.  Firewhiskey and the Floo network, surprisingly enough, did not mix.)

“Perhaps compared to Aramis’s,” Athos allowed, giving the boy another half-smile.

D’Artagnan groaned.  “He’s not still trying out that goatee, is he?”

“Mercifully, no.  I think I would have burned it off his face by now.”

“You still see a lot of him, then?”

“Treville didn’t tell you?  Aramis is an Auror too,” said Athos.  “He’s on my—our, I suppose—team.  So is Porthos.”

D’Artagnan grinned so widely Athos feared his face would crack.  “Really?  Porthos left Wimbourne?  And I thought Aramis was going into International Magical Cooperation?”

“Oh, he did,” Athos said.  “He and they… disagreed.  Frequently.  And Porthos decided to move into a career where he wouldn’t get fined for breaking bones.”

“Best Beater I’ve ever seen.”  The boy was still smiling, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You’ll be seeing him later,” Athos promised.  “Porthos will be giving your combat assessment.”

“Wonderful,” the boy said.  “I’ve learned a few things since he saw me last.”

“He and Aramis didn’t teach you anything illegal after I left, I hope?”

“Of course not,” d’Artagnan said loyally, and Athos nodded.  He still thought the whelp was young, too young to do what they did, but he was confident, and still loyal even after five years.  He would do well with them, Athos thought, so long as they managed to keep him alive.

“Come on,” he said.  “We’ve got too much to do today to stand here gawking.  Have you ever been to the Ministry?”

“Only for my interviews with Mr. Treville.”  Athos had thought as much.  D’Artagnan still looked a little lost and awed by the opulence and shine of the atrium.  Hogwarts was impressive in its own right, but it had considerably less gold and glitter, and if the statues caught you staring too long they’d make rude faces.   _These_ statues preened under the attention.

“I’ll show you around, then.”  Athos turned on his heel and strode across the atrium, d’Artagnan just behind him.

He was able to keep up much better now.

Athos held the lift door open for his new trainee, ducking to avoid the memos that zipped in overhead.  “Law Enforcement’s on the second floor,” he explained.  “The Atrium’s on eight.  Below us is the Department of Mysteries and the Wizengamot courtrooms.  You’ll spend plenty of time there later, but not yet.”

“The Department of Mysteries, or the courtrooms?”  d’Artagnan asked hopefully.  Two wizards and a witch piled in behind the pair, and the lift closed.

“Courtrooms.  Trust me,” Athos added, as d’Artagnan’s face fell a little, “the Department of Mysteries isn’t anywhere you want to be.”

“You were part of it, right?”

“That’s a story for another time,” Athos said, meaning _never._ Before the boy’s face could fall even farther, he rattled off the rest of the Departments.  “Games and Sports is on seven, Magical Transportation on six, Regulation and Control on four, and Accidents and Catastrophes on three.  You’ll almost never need to go to any of them.”

“The Department of International Magical Cooperation’s on floor five,” said the witch, grinning at Athos.  “You’ll be around more than you’d like, I’d expect.  De la Fere.”

Athos rolled his eyes.  “De Larroque.  Good morning.”  And he offered Ninon the little half-bow that made her laugh.

“Good morning,” she said.  “Your manners are impeccable, as always.  Who’s the new boy?”

D’Artagnan blinked, thrown off, no doubt, by Ninon’s smile and the way she held herself.  (She had some Veela in her family tree, Athos thought.  When Ninon was in a room, it was hard not to look at her.)

“This is d’Artagnan,” Athos said.  “He’s a new Auror trainee.  D’Artagnan, this is Ninon de Larroque.  She works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

“Pleasure,” she said to d’Artagnan.  “And you can call me Ninon.  Speaking of IMC,” and she turned to Athos, “you better come collect Aramis.  He’s not caused an incident yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“He’s only digging up some information,” Athos assured her. (He hoped that was all Aramis was doing, anyway.)  “I promise, you won’t have to deal with a crisis before you’ve had your morning tea.”

“See that I don’t,” Ninon said warningly.  “It’s been two hundred and thirty-six days without an incident.  That’s the longest streak in ten years, Athos.”

“If there’s an incident, I’ll pay for it.”  Athos thought that was reasonable.  Aramis couldn’t get up to _too_ much trouble in just a few hours with his feet firmly planted in English soil.  It was when he went abroad that the trouble started.

Ninon snorted.  “I don’t want your Galleons, de la Fere.  I want that antique desk your great-great-great-grandfather brought over during the Revolution.”

“There’s doxies in it,” said Athos, amused.

“I can afford an exterminator, Olivier.”

Athos bowed.  “Then it’s yours, should Aramis get up to trouble.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Ninon said, and smiled at d’Artagnan.  “It was nice meeting you.  Do try and keep this old man on his toes, won’t you?  He’s much more fun when he’s frazzled.”  (Ninon would know—she’d had Advanced Runes with him seventh year.)

“This is your floor, Ninon,” Athos said pointedly, before she could undermine him further.  The lift doors helpfully pinged open.

“So it is.”  She smiled slyly.  “Aren’t you going to show the boy around?”

Athos sighed.  He probably should.  “Very well.”  He stepped off the lift, d’Artagnan following close behind and looking a little bewildered.  (Ninon also had that effect on people.)

“We liaise with IMC pretty regularly,” he explained.  “Ninon works for the International Magical Office of Law—she helps us extradite British wizards who’ve fled abroad, or caused trouble for someone else.”

Athos led d’Artagnan down the bustling hallways.  “Office of Law is here on the left—” Ninon waved goodbye and vanished into an office that smelled like old parchment and coffee—“and the other office we deal with, the Office of International Law Enforcement, is up on the right.  Diplomat’s Office is at the very end of the hall.”

“How often are we down here?”

“Not often,” Athos said.  “Most times, we let other Ministries handle their own problems.  We usually only get involved if a British wizard makes a run for it.”

D’Artagnan nodded, seemingly fascinated.  Athos caught a flash of dark hair through one of the open doors—Aramis was leaning against a countertop and in avid conversation with a pretty young woman.

Athos glared.   _Is that,_ he thought, and then, _no._ “D’Herblay!”  He called, loud enough to get his _stupid, stupid_ friend’s attention.

Aramis’s head snapped up, and then he saw d’Artagnan.  He said something to the woman, clasped her hand, and then bounded out to meet Athos and the boy.

“My god,” he said, apparently just as amazed as Athos had been, “you’ve gotten taller.”

“So I’ve heard,” said d’Artagnan, and stuck his hand out.  Aramis ignored it and pulled him into a rough, happy hug.

“Porthos will be beside himself,” Aramis told the boy, looking at Athos.  “He’s convinced he could still punt you across the Great Hall if he wanted.”

“He did that?”  Athos said, alarmed.

“Only once,” d’Artagnan hummed, grinning, like being punted across the Great Hall like a football was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

“There will be none of that.”  Athos tried for stern.  “I’ve got enough to worry about without you and Porthos tossing a trainee all over the office.”

Aramis clapped a hand over his heart.  “No punting the whelp,” he said, “I promise.”  He turned to d’Artagnan again, throwing a careless arm over his shoulders.  “Athos giving you the grand tour?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Aramis sang, grinning at Athos.  “I’ve got some things to run by Treville.  I’ll see you later, yeah, whelp?  After Porthos kicks your ass in the dueling ring, of course.”

“Come by the cube later,” Athos said, trying for stern again.  “We’ve got some things to discuss.”   _Namely, who you can and cannot put your hands on, you bloody idiot._

If Aramis caught what Athos was saying, he didn’t show it.  He only grinned, bowed slightly to d’Artagnan, and headed off to the lifts, pausing every few doors to say hello to one of his ICM friends.

Athos shook his head slowly.

“He hasn’t changed at all,” d’Artagnan said wonderingly.

“He’s a little less reckless,” Athos said, in the interest of being fair.  “And he’s learned some spells since leaving school that would literally make your hair curl, among other things.  Other than that, no, he hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t think his beard was that bad.”  D’Artagnan’s smile was sly and teasing.

Athos narrowed his eyes.  “You’re not an Auror yet,” he warned, with a curl of his lips so that d’Artagnan knew he was joking.  Mostly.  “Don’t push your luck.”

He took the boy around the rest of the department, pointing out various persons and places of note, and then back to the lift.  When they stepped inside, a pretty, dark-haired, vaguely familiar witch was already there, and when she saw d’Artagnan she beamed.  “D’Artagnan!”  She said.

“Constance,” said d’Artagnan, and seemed to lose all ability to speak.  He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and smiled.  “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you worked here.” The witch seemed, if possible, just as flustered as d’Artagnan.  Athos watched curiously.

D’Artagnan drew himself up taller and seemed to inflate with pride.  “I’m an Auror now.  In training,” he added hastily, catching Athos’s amused expression.  “Uh, this is Athos… ?”

“Just Athos.”  He preferred it if people didn’t know his family name.

“Athos.  He’s going to be training me.  Athos, this is Constance Bonacieux.  She was at Hogwarts with us.”

“In Ravenclaw,” Athos remembered.  “Aramis introduced us, I think.  You were what, two years behind him?”

Constance nodded.  “I remember you, too,” she said.  “You won the dueling tournament every year you were there.”

“I did.”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” d’Artagnan said, looking at Constance like she was the sun and the moon rolled into one.  Athos closed his eyes.  Hopefully he didn’t fall in and out of love as easily as Aramis did.  Athos’s liver could only handle one of them at a time.

“Department of Magical Transportation.  Jacques got me in, he’s in Accidents and Catastrophes.”

D’Artagnan’s smile suddenly became more forced.

_Ah,_ Athos thought, _a lover._  

“That’s lovely,” said d’Artagnan, rather painfully.  

Athos, completely uninterested in other people’s emotional entanglements, came to the boy’s rescue and said, politely, “You going up or down?”

“Down.”  Constance smiled at him.  She’d been a friendly girl, Athos remembered.  He obligingly hit the button and the lift rattled downward.  Magical Transportation was just below IMC, and Constance and d’Artagnan managed to pass the short journey in pleasant, if more stilted, small talk.  The lift doors opened on her Department and she left, waving shyly to d’Artagnan.

When the doors closed, the boy let out a quiet sigh.  Catching Athos’s amused expression, he said, flustered, “She’s an old—”

Athos held up a hand.  “I’d rather not know.  It’s your business.”

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan muttered.  “I didn’t know she worked here.  She surprised me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ll almost never see anyone from Magical Transportation,” Athos said, taking pity on the boy again.   _Seventeen,_ he reminded himself, _he’s seventeen, he doesn’t know how to put Hogwarts entanglements aside yet._ “Now try not to look so gloomy.  We’re going to our floor, next.  Porthos is waiting for you.”

At the mention of Porthos, d’Artagnan brightened again and didn’t seem to think to call Athos out for his own perpetually glum expression.  (Athos had what Porthos, in his usual Muggle slang, called a “resting bitchface.”)

The lift dinged open onto the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Athos led d’Artagnan out into their foyer.  “Hit Witches and Wizards are on the right,” he said, nodding at the door striped with neon tape and flashing lights.  “They’re a pretty exclusive bunch.  They also steal sandwiches.  If any of them ask you to do something, run away, it’s probably not legal or safe.”

D’Artagnan nodded absently, eyes huge and round.

“Improper Use of Magic’s here.”  Athos pointed to a smaller, saner office.  “Wizengamot offices are back through there—their floor’s split between here and an enchanted portion of the Muggle University of London library.  Treville will explain to you how we work with the Wizengamot later—you know about Muggle lawyers, yes?”

D’Artagnan was half-blooded.  He nodded.

“The Wizengamot works like a court of Muggle lawyers,” Athos said.  “Or that’s what Porthos says, anyway.  I have no idea what a lawyer really is.”

“And here I’ve been tryin’ to teach you for years,” Porthos said, having caught sight of Athos and his charge.  He grinned down at d’Artagnan, who beamed back up at him.  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“If you say I’ve gotten taller,” d’Artagnan warned.

Porthos laughed.  “Heard enough of that, have you?”  Like Aramis, he pulled the boy into a rough, affectionate hug. “I knew we’d see you again sooner or later.  Kid who cast an Ensnaring Charm as good as you wasn’t going to join Magical Transportation, that’s for sure.”

“What about you?  You never told me you wanted to be an Auror!  You told all of us at school you were playing for the Wimbourne Wasps.”

“I did, for a season,” Porthos grinned, and Athos knew he was about to launch into one of his Quidditch stories, which invariably ended in several broken bones, so Athos bowed out of the conversation and sent them off.  

“Don’t break him,” he told Porthos warningly.  “And you, don’t worry, this isn’t a test.  This is just so we can see how good you are.”

Porthos shooed Athos away, and the older Auror went off in search of Aramis or Treville.  He saw no sign of the former, but managed to catch the latter as he was rounding the corner into the Wizengamot offices.

“Treville!”  he called, and the Head Auror turned.

“Athos,” he said.  “Found your trainee yet?”

“Yeah, he’s off with Porthos.  I gave him the tour.”

“What did you think?”

Athos shrugged.  “He’s different than what I remember,” he said dryly, “but he seems solid enough.  He’s very happy to be here, that’s for sure.  Porthos is going to see how he handles combat.  We’ll go from there.”

“His scores are excellent.”

“I know, I looked them up this morning.  Have you seen Aramis?  He said he was coming to find you.”

Treville nodded.  “He stopped by a few minutes ago.  I don’t know where he’s gone off too.”   _If you see him,_ Athos wanted to say, _tell him to stay the hell away from Anne Habsburg.  The last thing we need is Aramis sleeping with the Minister’s wife._   “He came to tell me about the wand you found in the forest.”

Attention derailed, Athos raised an eyebrow.  “Oh?”

“Come on,” said Treville.  “Let’s take this to my office.”

Athos obediently padded after Treville through the warren of Auror cubicles and MLE staff.  Once inside Treville’s office, the Head Auror muttered, “ _Muffliato,_ ” and sat down heavily in his chair.

“The wand?”  Athos prompted.

“Aramis took it to Ollivander’s first thing this morning,” Treville said.  “The old man could tell as soon as he looked at it that it wasn’t one of his wands.  He thinks it’s Italian-made, or maybe Greek.  An olive tree wand.  You don’t see many of those.”

“Any clue who it belongs to?”

Treville shook his head.  “A Dark witch, that’s all Ollivander could say.”

“A witch?”

“He said that the wand felt like it was wielded by a witch’s hand.  I say the old man’s mad, but he’s usually right about this sort of thing.  If he’s right, then we know that it’s foreign, that a witch wields it, and that it’s cast some powerful, powerful Dark magic in the last few days.  That’s more than we knew yesterday, at any rate.”

Athos turned that information over.  “What’s an Italian or Greek witch doing in the Scottish highlands?  There’s nothing up there but a few badly-tempered centaurs.”

“Tell me,” said Treville, leaning back into his chair.  “What do you know of the Dark wizard Ravaillac?”

Athos blinked, surprised.  “He’s the one who murdered Minister Henry Capet.  A fanatic.  He was killed by Aurors nearly twenty years ago.”

“How old were you then?  Five?  Six?”

“Five.”

“Do you remember the panic?”

Athos remembered whispers.  Ravaillac had murdered the Minister of Magic, one of the most powerful wizards of the time.  The Capets were an old family, and had more prodigies in their line than not.  (Louis was an exception.)  To think that he’d been murdered had roused the whole community to panic.

Wizards had all but locked themselves in their homes for fear that Ravaillac and his followers would come for them next.  He’d killed Capet, the house elves whispered, to overthrow Pureblooded tyranny.

Madame de la Fere didn’t let Athos out of the house for weeks.  Tom had scarcely been allowed out of his room.  His parents talked about moving back to France, two hundred years after their ancestors fled the same sort of revolution.

“Yes,” Athos said, “some.”

“It took us months to find Ravaillac and his followers, once de’ Medici took power.  She did her damnedest to throw us of the scent.  She bought those of us that could be bought, terrorized the others into behaving, and threw those of us who wouldn’t do either into Azkaban.”  Treville’s eyes were dark.  He, Athos knew, had been one of the ones tossed in Azkaban.  “She kept us off Ravaillac for almost a year.  Hid him and his in safe houses all over the country, see.  Ancestral properties that we didn’t know about.”

Athos winced.  No one had expected Capet’s wife to hide his murderers.

Marie de’ Medici’s brief stint as Minister had been dark and bloody.  Anyone who opposed her was tossed in Azkaban—Athos’s uncle Claude included—and their families threatened with the same or worse.

Politely, of course.  De’ Medici brought everyone in with stories of conspiracy, of a threat so deep and dark the very foundation of wizardry, families and bloodlines and magic itself, was threatened.  No one had questioned her until Richelieu turned on her—no one wanted to.  She was a grieving widow and a mother terrified for the life of her son.  What malice could she have?

Richelieu turned and Ravaillac was found.  Marie de’ Medici fled.  The rest of her followers broke and scattered, or stood and died.  Athos had been allowed outside again, and life went on.

“You’re not implying what I think you’re implying,” he said.  “You can’t be.”

“She was never caught.  We got Ravaillac in Bristol, and many of his followers, but a few slipped the noose, so to speak.”  Treville’s voice was low and hoarse, and he looked suddenly very old.  “After the other teams went missing, I sent Nine to Scotland.  Ravaillac had a safe house there, we thought.  It was one of the ones we could never find.  I thought—”

“That some of Ravaillac’s old friends were up to no good,” Athos said.  “That de’ Medici—”

“Might be looking to come home, and repeat history,” Treville finished, darkly.  “It’s a stretch, I’ll admit it.  We haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in eighteen years.  But the Minister’s—”

_A weak-willed fool,_ Athos thought.

“—young, and this, the disappearances, the Aurors vanishing in the woods, that’s how it was before.  I need to be sure.  The World Cup’s on the way, Capet’s been in office for less than three weeks, and my Aurors are getting cut down by the fistful.  I have to be sure.”

Athos waited.                                                                         

Treville let out a great, tired sigh.  “I sent a request to the Minister’s Office this morning.  I didn’t mention his mother, but I asked to put together a task force.  I want you to be part of it.”

“And my team?”

The old Auror snorted.  “Aramis is irresponsible.  Porthos is too quick-tempered.  And you—you’re young.  You’re reckless.”   _You’re a drunk at twenty-three,_ he didn’t say.  “I shouldn’t even be considering you.”

“I won’t do anything without them,” Athos said quietly.  “We—tried, once, and it ended badly for all of us.  We’re better together.”

“Together you’re the best bloody team I’ve got.”  Treville paused, reconsidered.  “Or you will be, if you manage to survive a few more years.”  Treville dragged a hand through his thinning hair.  “Don’t say anything to them, yet.  I still have to clear this with the Minister’s Office.  And if Capet gives us the go-ahead, don’t tell them about de’ Medici, not yet.  I don’t want word getting out, and your teammates aren’t known for discretion.”

Athos couldn’t disagree.  Aramis was only discreet when a woman was involved, and Porthos was too straightforward.  He wouldn’t go running his mouth off to anyone, but he wouldn’t hide it, if someone asked.

The three of them had their own strengths and weaknesses.  If Treville wanted a suspect to spill his information, or to make a big hole in the street, he went to Porthos.  If he wanted more delicate, sly work, he went to Aramis.  And if Treville wanted a secret kept, he went to Athos.

“I won’t say anything,” said Athos, and bowed slightly.  “Though they will put it together.”

Treville waved a hand.  “We’ll wrestle that devil’s snare when it sprouts.  Go on.  Go find your trainee.”  He looked up.  “And keep a close eye on him.  On all of them.  I don’t want to write more condolence letters.”

Athos nodded.  “I won’t let them get in too much trouble.”  He hesitated.  “I’m sorry about the other Aurors.  Planchet and Team Nine, and the rest.”

Recovering himself, Treville sighed.  “Comes with the job,” he said.  “The best we can do is find who killed them, and make it stop.”

“Agreed.”  Sensing a dismissal, Athos bowed again and left.  Treville would call them all together when he was ready.

His mind was whirling as he went to join the others.  Marie de’ Medici, in Britain again?  She was from an Italian family, so the wand would make sense, if it was hers or one of her followers, but what could she possibly hope to gain from coming back?

No one would trust her in power, not this time. She had snatched the Minister’s job the first time because people were afraid, and because there was no one better to step up after Capet was murdered.  If something were to happen to Louis, there were dozens of other witches and wizards perfectly qualified to step in, even in the interim.

Treville, for one.  Richelieu.  Hell, the Wizengamot would give Anne Habsburg the job before they let de’ Medici back in power, regardless of the fact that Anne was a Healer and had the political acumen of a Confunded hippogriff.

(Anne was two years younger than Athos, and a Pureblood.  He knew her as well as he knew Louis.  And while Anne was probably one of the kindest people he’d ever met, she didn’t play the kind of games their families liked to play.  Her heart was too tender for it.)

Sighing, confused and calculating, Athos turned the corner and slipped into the Auror training rooms.  Magicked to be much, much larger than the Ministry would like and outfitted to the teeth with various weapons, artifacts, books, and a miniature Healer’s ward, the rooms were the heart of Auror life.

They trained here, play-fought here, bled here, ate here, and on particularly bad nights, slept here.  Athos had his own fiercely-defended cot tucked in one of the small libraries.

He heard Porthos shouting spells, and followed the sound.

D’Artagnan and Porthos were dueling.  Spells—mostly harmless ones, from what Athos could identify—flashed and splashed off the walls, showering the floor and the tables, which had been shoved up against the wall and overturned in the fighting, with sparks.

Aramis leaned against the wall, alternately shouting encouragement to d’Artagnan and heckling Porthos.

Athos ducked a jet of yellow light, skirting the duelers to stand beside Aramis.  The other Auror grinned.

“He’s not half bad,” he said, nodding at d’Artagnan.  The boy dodged a Jelly-legs Jinx and fired back a Furnunculus Curse.   Porthos stopped it easily, laughing, and blasted d’Artagnan with a Bat-Bogey Hex.  D’Artagnan yelped, beset by giant, winged snot. “A little overeager, and his footwork could use some improvement, but not bad at all.”

“ _Finite incantatem,_ ” d’Artagnan growled, glaring at Porthos.  “What are you, twelve?”

“In the field, you want to use any advantage you’ve got,” said Porthos gleefully.  “You’d be surprised at how useful schoolyard hexes are.   _Esserio,_ ” he added, to emphasize his point, and d’Artagnan ducked a very large watermelon, swearing.

“This job is all about expecting the unexpected.” Aramis jumped in with a neat Freezing Charm.

“ _Protego!”_ Ice cracked against d’Artagnan’s shield, and he grinned widely as Porthos and Aramis circled him, rising to the challenge.

The training room dissolved into a flurry of spells.

The boy was good.  Athos had looked up his Hogwarts grades before going to collect him from the atrium—Outstandings in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Potions, Exceeds Expectations in Charms and Transfiguration.  D’Artagnan had also won the Inter-house Dueling Competition his fourth, fifth, and seventh years, and apparently had experience fighting off acromantula, werewolves, and trolls.  (Which meant that he wasn’t afraid of the Forbidden Forest, but also that he had little interest in following the rules.  Not that Athos could judge—during fifth year he had spent three whole weeks living in the Forest just to prove he could, and to get away from the horde of second year girls Aramis had turned loose after him.)

_Good form,_ Athos thought, watching d’Artagnan eel past a pair of curses.   _He’s not using his Shield Charm as well as he could be, but it’s strong enough to take some damage.  He’s adaptable._

Deciding he’d seen enough, Athos jumped into the fray, tossing an Impediment Curse that d’Artagnan just barely managed to block.  Athos, Aramis, and Porthos advanced on him.  “Oh, now that’s just unfair,” he said, but his eyes were bright with the fight and the prospect of a challenge.

“Most of what we do isn’t fair,” Athos said dryly.  “ _Langlok._ ”

“You’ll almost never fight one on one,” Porthos agreed.  “ _Porrifors._ ”

“And if you do, your opponent will use everything they have to kill you,” Aramis added.  “ _Levicorpus!_ ”

“ _Expelliarmus,_ ” Athos said, for good measure, and caught d’Artagnan’s wand.  Hanging suspended by his ankle, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth and leeks pouring from his ears, d’Artagnan spluttered at them, face red.

Athos smiled.  “I’ve seen worse, I suppose.   _Finite incantatem._ ”  The boy flopped back to the ground, landing in a pile of leeks.

“Much worse,” said Porthos, passing his wand over himself.  He shed a layer of feathers— _nice transfiguration,_ Athos thought approvingly—and his hands turned from bright green back to their normal color.

“You’ve been practicing.”  A pair of antlers stuck up from Aramis’s untidy hair and he didn’t seem at all inclined to get rid of them.

D’Artagnan grinned, a little shy.  “I liked Dueling Club.  And in fifth year, when they asked me what job I wanted, I couldn’t think of any job other than this one.”

“It’s a hard job,” Athos said.  “And a dangerous one.  They tell you in school that all of the worst Dark wizards were chased out of Britain years and years ago, but not all of them left, and a few people turn every year.  But it’s a good job, if you can handle it.”

“I can handle it.”  D’Artagnan’s face was set, determination in the line of his shoulders.  Athos recognized that look.

“We’ll see,” he said simply, and offered the boy another half-smile.  “You can fight, that’s for sure.”

“He means that he’s impressed,” Porthos stage-whispered.

Athos rolled his eyes.  “Don’t ruin him,” he scolded, sweeping his wand to put the training room back in order.  Tables and chairs righted themselves, bits of smashed fruit vanished, and what was left of Porthos’s Bat-Bogey Hex got sucked up into thin air.  To d’Artagnan he said, “The Auror training period usually lasts three years.  It could go faster or slower, depending on what happens or how you handle the training.  At the end of it, if you still want to be an Auror, Treville will take you for a final assessment and you’ll be one of us.”

The stubborn set of d’Artagnan’s jaw didn’t fade.  “I can do it,” he said.

Athos inclined his head.  “Then you’ll be with us until Treville says otherwise.  Is that alright?”

Finally, the boy’s face relaxed into a buoyant grin.  “Yes!”  He said, then remembered himself.  “If you don’t mind me tagging along, that is.”

Aramis laughed.  “Old Salazar here got used to it last time, didn’t he?  Don’t worry, whelp, Athos is already looking forward to long, cold stakeouts in your company.”

“’specially if you’ll buy him some firewhiskey, now that you’re of age,” said Porthos.

“You will not let our trainee buy me alcohol,” Athos growled, determined to stamp out that particular bad behavior before it could grow.  “It’s unprofessional.”

Porthos winked at d’Artagnan.

_There’s a decent chance I’m going to murder them all before the summer’s out,_ Athos thought, but it was a warm feeling.  He’d gotten used to Porthos and Aramis, their flirting and fighting and constant, steady presence.  It was adapt or die, really, once Aramis latched onto him in second year.  After twelve years he couldn’t imagine life without them.

But he’d liked having someone to teach, at school.  He’d been pissed when the Heads of House gave him d’Artagnan, because he’d been studying for his NEWTs and trying to keep his friends out of too much trouble and he really _didn’t_ like Gryffindors, even when Aramis was in their colors.

But he’d been able to teach someone how to duel, and which secret passages were the best for getting to class on time, and how to find the Room of Requirement.  He was older than Porthos and Aramis, but they’d never needed him to teach them anything.  They had managed quite well on their own.

_You sentimental old fool,_ he told himself sternly.  D’Artagnan was a person, not a pet, and a person Athos was responsible for keeping alive and well when Aurors were being hunted down and slaughtered to a man.

Which brought him back to duty, and Treville’s worry that Marie de’ Medici was back in England stirring up trouble.

“That’s enough for today, I think,” he said, coming to a decision.  De’ Medici had owned a flat in the city—Athos remembered spending particularly boring, stuffing dinner parties there when he was very small.  It was possible, probable even, given Wizarding superstition and Auror thoroughness, that her apartment was still empty.

Athos had no idea where to look for a witch who’d been missing for twenty years.  Her former home was as good a place to start as any, especially since he wasn’t keen on going back to Scotland until he had a solid idea of what he was taking his people into.

“You’ve got a job,” said Aramis thoughtfully, watching his face.

“Back to Scotland?”  Porthos tucked his wand back into his jeans.

“No.”  Athos shook his head.  “There’s—a place we can look, here in London.  A flat.”

“Who’s flat?”

Athos gave the three of them a look.

“Ah,” Aramis said, catching on.  “Real hush-hush, is it?  Treville’s orders?”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry,” Porthos hummed.  “We’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“I’m rather counting on it,” Athos said dryly.  “D’Artagnan, you’ve done enough your first day.  You’re welcome to stay in the offices and introduce yourself to the other Aurors, or make use of these rooms.”

The boy opened his mouth, looking put out, but Aramis beat him to it.  “You’re not taking him?”

“No,” Athos said, “I’m not.”

“Aw, c’mon.”   Porthos threw an arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulders.  “Who’s it gonna hurt, eh?  He’ll be with us.  And it’s not like anyone’s gonna start a fight in the middle London.”

“No,” Athos repeated.  “Treville said—”

“Treville said you couldn’t _tell_ us where we’re going, right?”  Aramis’s face was earnest.  “He didn’t say you couldn’t bring the whelp along, did he?”

“Well, no, but—”

“How’s he gonna learn if we don’t take him along for things?  He’s a smart lad, ain’t you, whelp?  You won’t get in our way if we let you tag along?  You’ll just, what did we used to call it, Aramis, _watch and learn?_ ”

D’Artagnan nodded vigorously.

Athos looked between the three of them, earnest Aramis, grinning Porthos, hopeful d’Artagnan.  He sighed.

“He’d be safer with us than he’d be anywhere else,” Aramis pointed out.  “Between the three of us he’d have more protection than a gem in Gringotts.”

He had a point there.  Athos sighed and waved a hand.  “Fine,” he said.  “Fine.  But if there’s any trouble, d’Artagnan, you’re Apparating straight back here, understand?  The last thing I need is to get my trainee killed on his first day.”

“Absolutely,” d’Artagnan said, looking disgustingly pleased.

_I will kill them all by the end of July,_ Athos thought, _and Treville will probably give me a medal for it._

“So where’re we headed?”  Porthos drawled.  “And how’re we getting there?  Apparation?  Floo?”

Athos resisted the urge to crawl into a bottle.  He _hated_ Muggle travel, he really did.  But it was discreet, and hard to track.  Last time de’ Medici had spies in every department, reporting any dissent back to her.  If this time was anything like the last—

“No,” he said, irritated, “we’re taking the Muggle Underground.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Spells Used or Mentioned: 
> 
> _Muffliato,_ shields a conversation from eavesdropping. 
> 
> Jelly-legs Jinx, makes the target feel as though their legs are made of jelly, makes walking difficult.
> 
> Furnunculus Curse, causes the target to become covered in boils. 
> 
> Bat-Boogey Hex, turns opponent's boogers into giant, bat-shaped projectiles, which is literally the best spell I have ever heard. 
> 
> _Finite incantatem,_ ends a spell. 
> 
> _Esserio,_ pulled from the fanon wiki, conjures up large projectile fruits. 
> 
> Freezing Charm, used traditionally to, you guessed it, freeze stuff, but in most of the videogames can be used as a projectile weapon. 
> 
> _Protego,_ the Shield Charm. Conjures a protective barrier that can reflect or stop most curses. 
> 
> Impediment Curse, trips or tangles or otherwise stops the opponent. 
> 
> _Langlok,_ glues the roof of the opponent's tongue to their mouth. 
> 
> _Porrifors_ , causes leeks to erupt from the opponent's ears. (Ow??)
> 
> _Levicorpus_ , levitates the opponent by their ankle. 
> 
> _Expelliarmus,_ disarms the opponent.

**Author's Note:**

> Spells (pulled from both the canon HP wiki and the fanon HP wiki: I tried to use the most reasonable ones because some of those are fucking ridiculous): 
> 
> _Homenum revelio_ , a Revealing Charm that alerts the caster to the presence of other humans. 
> 
> Bedazzling Hex (mentioned only), pulled from the HP wiki, is apparently some kind of glamor spell that is used to make Invisibility Cloaks. 
> 
> _Cave inimicum,_ a protective spell used to strengthen and hide an area. Hermoine uses this in DH to protect their campsite. 
> 
> _Finite incantatem,_ ends whatever spell the caster wishes it to end. 
> 
> Preservation Charm, pretty self-explanatory, pulled from the fandom wiki. If Aurors are like Wizard CSI/cops, they'd probably have some way to preserve evidence. 
> 
> _Lumos,_ conjures a light at the tip of the caster's wand. 
> 
> _Priori incantatem,_ reveals previous spells cast when cast on a wand. 
> 
> _Reducto,_ a Blasting spell. Pretty much just straight up explosions/high impacts. If you ever play the LEGO HP game, this spell is the BEST. 
> 
> _Accio,_ the Summoning Charm. In HP canon it seems to work in contradictory ways--Harry has to say "Accio Firebolt" to get his broom, but older wizards like Mrs. Weasley can just say "Accio" and summon what they want. And then you throw in nonverbal summoning, which makes me think that the Summoning Charm doesn't _need_ you to say "Accio _____," you just have to focus on what you want when casting.


End file.
